


Identity

by kindalikethis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Magic, Romance, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindalikethis/pseuds/kindalikethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the three of you went underwater, you essentially opened a door into your minds...The nogitsune wasn't the only thing in Stiles' mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. This crossover wouldn't let me go. If anyone with fabulous grammar wants to kick my booty into gear, feel free to drop me a line on [tumblr](http://itskinda.tumblr.com/). This starts at the end of Season 3...but I changed a smidgen because I do what I want.

_When the three of you went underwater...you essentially opened a door into your minds..._

His heart felt as if it would burst and pound right out of his chest, but Stiles couldn't stop. The clicking was getting louder, coming closer and he needed to keep running. This was what he was good at and the others were counting on him. The whirring grew louder and sweat ran down his face and back. Without stopping his pace, he glanced behind him and saw the bushes rustle. There was no more time; there was no place to go. A large wall covered in vines loomed before him and he dashed alongside it, a scream of desperation clawing up his throat as a loud moan filled the air.

He wasn't going to make it. Something grabbed at his shirt, pierced his arm and Stiles screamed as he was thrown to the ground.

Stiles, Stiles – _Stiles wake up!_

Crushed in the arms of his dad, Stiles let out a sob, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them again. His dad was still there. It'd been a dream. Nothing but another nightmare. After the nogitsune, the nightmares had never really stopped. They'd just become different.

“I'm here, it's okay...” His dad's voice was a soothing balm to his racing heart. Stiles pulled him tight one last time before letting go.

“I'm fine, dad.” His dad didn't look convinced, but let it go.

“How does breakfast sound?”

Stiles look down at his sheets and smiled. “Sound good. No salt on those eggs though.”

The bed creaked as his dad got up. Grumbling halfheartedly under his breath his dad left to go scramble some eggs leaving Stiles some time to compose himself.

Stiles sighed as he flopped back down on his bed. The nightmares, Allison's death, the funeral, Issac crossing the ocean to France, the twinless-twin, teaching Malia to act human, and now the arrival of Kate...nothing was the same. Even school seemed strained with Kira and Scott dancing around each other and feeling guilty.

Forcing himself to get up so he wouldn't be late, Stiles shucked off his pajamas for clothes. Another day of drudgery, strained smiles and wishing more than ever that life could go back to being simple. A life without werewolves or any of their ilk...now that was an impossible dream.

Stiles flung himself into his seat next to Scott. They had a new Chemistry teacher. She was an older woman with short-cropped hair and a no-nonsense attitude that kept most class antics at bay. Today, a thick, heavily muscled Asian boy stood next to her desk with his arms crossed, his tight shirtsleeves rolled up to show off his biceps. Stiles couldn't help admiring him just a little. It seemed unfair that everyone in Beacon Hills sported a six-pack while he remained skinny despite running with werewolves.

“Class, listen up, we have a new student. Why don't you introduce yourself?”

As the boy studied his audience, Stiles couldn't help a queer sense of deja vu.

“My name's Minho.” With no other explanation forthcoming the teacher waved him toward a seat. Instead of taking one of the open seats at the front, he walked passed them to slip into one closer to the back and closer to Stiles.

Stiles caught his eyes and waved halfheartedly. Minho, instead of ignoring him, leaned across the isle. “Hey, mind if I borrow a pen?”

“Uh-yeah, no problem.” Stiles dug in his bag, pulling out a fistful of pencils and pens in the process. He held out his fist and let Minho take his pick. “Here.”

“Thanks. What's your name?”

“Stiles. Stilinksi. I mean, Stiles is my first name, or well not my actual name but--” Could he not get flustered by a pair of deep, attentive eyes for once in his life? But Minho smiled at him and tapped his borrowed pen on Stiles desk.

“Mind if I budge over to share your book?”

Stiles looked at his teacher writing notes on the chalkboard and nodded quickly at Minho. “I don't think she'll mind. New kid excuse is definitely yours to use.”

Scott stared curiously in their direction, his head tilted to the side like the inquisitive puppy he was. Stiles knew he was listening in on their conversation but Minho didn't seem to be a werewolf in disguise or any other supernatural creature of the night. In fact, Minho didn't seem to be interested in small-talk either, though Stiles felt like he did an admirable job filling in the silence.

What Minho lacked in words, he definitely didn't lack in smiles despite his gruff exterior. Stiles knew Scott could hear his heart rate skyrocket, several times. Stiles regaled Minho with which teachers to watch out for, which classes were a breeze, who was crazy and how lacrosse was the sport to play.

“I'm not really into lacrosse,” Minho admitted. “More of a cross-country runner. Honestly, I'm kind of surprised you aren't.”

“Lacrosse is the—wait, what? You think I run cross-country?” Not that Stiles couldn't run, he'd proven that often enough in the last year, but the thought of running for fun was cringe-worthy. He ran cross-country in the off season, but that's only because coach made him. He didn't think he was any good at it.

Minho shrugged. “You got the physique for it.”

“I think that's the first time anyone told me I had the physique for anything.” Stiles tried to wrap his mind around it, someone thought he could play a sport and do it well?

“Have you tried it? I mean, would you like to?”

“Uh...” Gaping, Stiles tried to think of what to say. Was Minho asking to go running together? For fun? Like an after-school bonding experience? Looking at Minho's biceps, which were a marvel, well...he did seem like the kind of guy who worked out a lot.

Minho backpedaled when Stiles didn't answer. “I'm new. I don't have a running buddy yet. It's easier for me to keep it up if I have someone to do it with. It was a dumb question.”

“Not dumb. Weird, considering you just met me, but not dumb.” At Minho's raised eyebrow, Stiles tried his best convincing smile, which used to get him and Scott in a lot of trouble. “I probably need the exercise anyway. And I'm not a morning person, so I can't promise that you won't need to wake me up with excessive amounts force if we're talking before school running. We're talking Buffy-level beat-down.”

'I might not have her figure, but I can do Buffy-level.”

Stiles laughed. “Nah, you're more of an Angel guy.”

Minho smirked and leaned forward. “I prefer Spike, only I get the girl.”

Stiles wasn't sure, but he might have hearts in his eyes. This guy got his references. Time to see what else he knew. “DC or Marvel?”

Raised eyebrow aside, Minho looked at him like they were speaking the same language. “Marvel hands-down.”

Stiles smiled. “Blasphemy, right there. I almost don't want to know your next answer. Star Trek or Star Wars?”

“Star Wars, and you better hope you agree to that.”

“Scout's honor,” Stiles promised. “Honestly, I'm just glad you've watched. I don't understand how all my friends have never seen Star Wars. It's a classic!”

Minho laughed. “I thought everyone, even people who hadn't watched the originals at least saw the newer adaptions.”

Stiles waved his hands in his direction. He might be a little bit in love right now. “Exactly! Though I think if you are getting me to run, I should definitely get a marathon night in return.”

Minho grinned as he discreetly passed over his cell phone, an older model that actually had a keypad. “Deal.”

They spent the next week texting, small twitter-esque phrases during class and longer, drawn out conversations in the evening. Stiles even got up early three days out of five to run with Minho. Despite the early hour, it wasn't a hardship watching Minho's sweat damp arms and shoulders as they kept pace together. He didn't think he was getting the wrong signal. It might be a good idea to ask Scott, just in case. What else were bros for, if not for ego-boosting while decimating entire armies over pizza?

Turned out Scott had a study date with Kira on Friday and work on Saturday, so they postponed for another week. By the time it was Friday, Stiles downed a cup of coffee – black – to help keep his jitters at bay. He'd made plans with Minho to show him some lacrosse moves over the weekend sans padding.

Scott arrived at his house, stick in one hand so that he'd have an extra for tomorrow and a bag of Doritos in another.

“Ready to up our killstreaks?” Stiles held the door open as Scott ducked under his arm.

“You know I am,” Scott replied, setting his lacrosse stick against the wall and opening the bag of chips as he made his way into the living room where Stiles had commandeered the TV.

“So...” Scott asked as they set up the game and the loading page updated. “I'm guessing he said yes.” Count on Scott to not only know he liked Minho, as in I want to get in your pants hot damn, but also that he didn't even need a come-out party. Though, he might want one. A party that is. But it made Stiles grin as he shut the door. No one knew him better than Scott. Of course, fretting about asking him out for several days probably also gave Scott a big hint.

“Yeah, but it's not exactly a date, ya know? I'm not sure how to switch from sports to coffee.”

Scott laughed. “I don't think you need to do coffee. Maybe just...kiss?”

“Riiiiight.” He looked at Scott, who was watching him with a bemused smile. “Seriously? So, what, he goes for a goal and I go for a lip pucker?”

Scott bumped his shoulder. “Try a tackle instead.”

The game loaded and they brought up the split-screen, paying more attention to their controllers than their chips. “I seriously don't know how you got shit with moves like that.”

“Dude, just go for it. I'm sure he likes you and if he doesn't he's missing out.”

“Come on Scotty, help me out here, what do you werewolf senses tell you?”

Scott cursed as he was hit. “He likes you. Whenever you smile at him in class his heartbeat skyrockets.”

“Really?” Stiles turned to look at Scott as his character paused in a semi-safe area.

Scott raised his eyebrows. “I got your back, man. Of course I was paying attention.”

“You're the best.”

“Anything for you,” Scott said, his character in the game shadowing him.

Scott was right. Stiles would never tell him, he'd be incorrigible. As Stiles drove home, he couldn't help but think of the tackle-turned-kiss. Minho had hit him a lot harder than he'd expected and he'd slipped and fell with Minho tumbling on top of him. They'd stayed that way a second too long and before Stiles could even take Scott's advice and go for it Minho was already pressing his lips to his. They'd been chapped but warm and Stiles had forgotten all about his lacrosse stick in turn for his other...stick. He smiled at nothing, humming along to the tune on the radio without really hearing it. It was nice, normal and for once nothing supernatural seemed to be lurking in the shadows aside from Kate. And, well, they'd killed her once; Stiles was confident they could do it again.

Stiles hated Mondays. Despite his good weekend and catching a few more kisses with Minho after they decided to meet for coffee – ha, Scott! - on Sunday, he still hadn't slept well. He woken once again to a pounding heart and shaking hands, his legs cramping from tension. He'd had to stretch longer before he met Minho for their morning run. And he was trying to concentrate, but listening to Mrs. Harding, his Chemistry teacher, drone on and on about something he'd read last year for fun could make anyone start doing the head drop.

Not only that, but Scott had pulled him from a debate with Minho on the merits of Boba Fett being unmasked as a woman, to whisper that Chris had contacted him to let him know that Kate had been spotted two towns over. Not exactly the best way to start his Monday.

“---attention, Stilinski?”

“Uh, what?” Stiles blinked at Mrs. Harding, ignoring the titter of his classmates. The chalk squeaked in her grip. Not a good sign. His Monday looked like it was about to get worse.

“Not paying attention in class will affect your grade, Stilinski. If I have to say something again, it will be a detention after school, are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Stiles croaked, blushing.

“Good,” Mrs. Harding said, giving him one more stern look before falling back into her lecture. His phone vibrated in his pocket and once Mrs. Harding turned back to the board he furtively checked it.

Everything okay? It was from Minho. He glanced over. Minho raised his eyebrows in question. Stiles nodded and typed out a quick reply. Fine want to get lunch in the library?

Minho texted back only one word. Yes.

Lunch couldn't come fast enough. He ditched his tray for napkins, Minho following his lead, as he led the way to the library. Luckily, none of their teachers stopped them and they hid in the back near one of the corners where they would be blocked from any searching eyes by bookshelves.

They spread out a pile of food ensconced in napkins. “What's that?” Stiles waved a slice of greasy pizza at Minho's piles of papers he'd slipped out of a book.

“Homework.”

“Seriously?”

“Shut your mouth.” Minho pressed one warm finger under his chin “I don't want to see that.”

Stiles swallowed and grinned. “Bet you would if it was your--”

“Shuck it.” Minho slipped his hand from chin to neck, reeling him in and Stiles instantly forgot about the weird word choice for more important things, like the lips pressing against his and the warm hand trailing down his side to press against the edge of his jeans.

Stiles pressed open mouth against Minho, the tips of tongue touching before he leaned forward more securely. Greasy fingers pressed gently against Minho's cheek.

“Can't believe you were going to do homework.”

Minho grinned into the kiss. “Can't believe you fell for that.”

Their lunch was only half-eaten by the end and they both scrambled late to their next class.

Stiles finally felt like he understood Scott's constant, attention-filled devotion he'd had for Allison. He still had so much to learn about Minho, so many places he still hadn't touched, but he wanted to fill up as much of his day with him as he could. If it helped to take his mind off other things, then that was only a bonus.

Wednesdays were set aside for Malia. She still hadn't entered the school system, but Stiles figured that was for the best considering her short temperament.

“Hey, hey! Fragile human here.” He rubbed his shoulder. Malia punched harder than Erica ever had.

“I don't see why I have to learn this.” The basic algebra problems Lydia set out for her were crumpled.

“Because, everyone needs to know math.”

Lydia, who sat above him on his bed next to Malia, rolled her eyes. “Yes, great reasoning Stiles. Because everyone needs to know math. Not because, oh, math as a subject creates great technological advancement in medicine, science or--”

“Okay, okay!” He waved his arms, heading off Lydia's rant. “Got it. You should study math for all those reasons, and also it really helps when you have to tip.”

Lydia tossed her hair behind her shoulder. Stiles gave her a shit-eating grin in response.

Malia just looked confused.

“Let's start again,” Lydia suggested gently, turning her back on Stiles and effectively blocking him out of the conversation. Which was totally fine with him, it'd give him a chance to up his level in candy-crush, but he made sure to keep the volume off. It wouldn't be a good idea to get Lydia and Malia pissed at him.

It was nice, sitting here with them and listening to the murmur of their voices without their tones raised in distress. His room smelled strongly of strawberries whenever Lydia tossed her hair and Malia kept nudging his shoulder with her bare toes. Her toes were painted a bright, cherry-red. Lydia's doing, no doubt, and he absently tickled them with one hand while the other leveled-up in candy destroying awesomeness.

Malia jerked her foot back, snorting at something Lydia said. Stiles looked at them both, sitting on his bed with homework spread between them and had to close his eyes against the sudden burn in them. He blinked rapidly. Allison should be here with them. Malia would have liked her. He glanced down at his screen. Malia's toes were nudging him rather pointedly.

“Hey, hey, Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

“Help me with this next problem.” Not a question, but at least she didn't just yank him up by his arm to do her bidding. They were still working on questions, rather than demands. It was a work in progress.

He tucked his phone into his back pocket. “Sure.”

Lydia raised her eyebrows at him, huffing before turning back to her own work. He slid into the space next to Malia and leaned over her shoulder, breathing in the woodsy-scent of her bath soap. He'd bought it for her with Scott when she'd first been finding her way as human and out of Eichen House. Concentrating on explaining the problem, in as easy words as he knew how, he guided her through the next few problems, feeling his own fall away.

The next morning, Stiles was making a pot of coffee when his dad wandered downstairs.

“Hey Pops.” He poured himself a cup of black and a cup with cream for his dad.

“Hey, kid, you're up early. Running this morning?”

“Yep, Minho should be here soon.” It was nice, being able to talk openly about Minho. He hadn't told his dad all the details, like the fact that they were dating. His dad seemed to think he had something going on with Malia, though Stiles had tried to dissuade him before he just started ignoring his dad's teasing smiles. Still, it was nice not to have to lie, even if he was conveniently not mentioning the boyfriend aspect. He sat at the table while his dad unfolded a newspaper and munched on the frozen waffles he'd toasted for them both.

The doorbell rang, earlier than Stiles expected. He left his coffee and waffle at the table, waving his dad back to his chair, and answered the door to Minho on the other side in his running clothes and backpack slung on one shoulder. Minho's cheeks were slightly red, as if he'd been out in the chilly morning for longer than a few minutes. They'd never talked about it, but it was clear Minho didn't have a car. He looked down the street, perhaps one of the houses in the neighborhood belonged to Minho's family? Though he'd hadn't seen any for sale signs in a while.

“I'm still eating breakfast. Just waffles, you want any?”

Minho dropped his bag by the door. “If you're offering, I'm not going to say no.”

Stiles led him into the kitchen, and Minho paused by the threshold to smile at his dad. “Good morning, Sheriff.”

“None of that now, Minho. I told you before to call me John. Have a seat, I overheard Siles say he was heating up some extra waffles for you.”

“Want any coffee?” Stiles asked, head buried in the freezer as he pulled out the waffle box and popped two in the toaster.

“Sure, just black for me.”

Stiles handed him a cup and Minho nodded with thanks.

Breakfast was calm, his dad making small talk with Minho who looked both pleased and edgy with the attention. What felt like minutes later, they were rushing out the door, saying hasty goodbyes to his dad while pausing to stretch before starting in a brisk jog. They'd both gotten a little sidetracked by the conversation, Minho with what looked to be nerves, considering how he alternated between looking his dad in the eyes and staring over his shoulder, and Stiles who was a little overwhelmed with how easy everything seemed to be. His dad seemed to like Minho, and that made warmth spread through his body and he'd rubbed his hands vigorously to keep from vibrating with glee (he probably looked a little deranged, if he counted they way his dad had looked at him, which he didn't).

They ran through the neighborhood, eventually rounding into the park. Gradually, their runs got longer the more Stiles could handle. It was safe to say Minho was in a lot better shape than him, and looked it, but Stiles was catching up. He'd noticed his legs looked more muscular when he'd last flexed them, shamelessly, in front of the bathroom mirror.

He breathed through his nose and exhaled through his mouth like Minho encouraged him to do. It was quiet, not something Stiles was used to keeping, but he didn't want to interrupt it this morning. The breakfast with his dad had given him a lot to think about.

He wanted to tell his dad that Minho and him were dating. But, he knew himself well enough to admit he was a little bit afraid to do it. Scott's support was genuine and automatic but he wasn't so sure about his dad. Whenever he thought about it, he could only think of his dad's words at the Jungle last year: you're not gay...not dressed like that.

Clothes had nothing to do with it, he knew that. But he couldn't help but think, a little harshly, that his mother would have known. Would have known without him needing to say anything.

Minho bumped into his shoulder, smiling when he got his attention. “You good?”

Stiles huffed back at him. “Yeah, I'm good.” Staring into Minho's brown eyes, squinting at him through the early morning sun, Stiles found that it was true.

Of course good things couldn't last. Of course it had to be Derek to ruin the calm their lives had fallen into. Of-fucking-course.

“Are you serious, Scott?”

“Dude, I'm just telling you what he told me. We need to get to Deaton's clinic, though. He asked for us.”

“And when you say ask, you mean demanded, right?”

Scott didn't reply, but Stiles didn't need to see him to know that he was probably shrugging. He looked at his half-load of unfinished laundry, cell phone cradled in his neck and let the clothes in his hands drop. He shoved the wet ones into the dryer, but didn't bother with the next load. Knowing his luck, he'd get blood on his clothes and need to wash them again anyway. Might as well wait till he got back tonight to finish. Hopefully, before his dad came home.

“Fine, I'll meet you there.” He swiped a hoodie from his dirty pile, shoving it on as he fished his car keys out of his pocket. He had to meet Minho tomorrow for an early morning run and he'd been hoping to go to bed early. “Fuck.” It looked like it was going to be a long night.

Deaton's lights were on in the clinic, but the closed sign was posted on the front door. Stiles bypassed it, heading for another door in the back which he banged on until Scott opened it.

“Where is she?”

“Inside.” He followed Scott into the lab, where Derek was leaning against the wall with clenched hands. His fangs were out, but the rest of his face was human smooth. Kate was laid out on the table, skin a harsh blue in the florescent lighting and eyes open in death. Deaton stood beside her, peering down at her half covered body. The ripped remains of her clothes looked wet, even though it hadn't rained recently.

Stiles moved closer to Derek, resting his hand on his shoulder. He was tense beneath his palm, but seemed to relax marginally when Stiles squeezed. “What happened?”

Derek lisped from his protruding fangs. “I don't know. She was dead when I found her.”

“Is it a trick?” Scott asked Deaton.

“Not any trick I'm familiar with,” Deaton answered, shining a light into her eyes. He already had a sample of her soiled clothing under a microscope on the counter.

“There's not much you can do until I run some tests,” Deaton said, flicking the light off. He turned toward them. “It looks like she vomited at some point, so my best guess until we learn more is poison or wolfsbane, though the symptoms so far aren't typical of wolfsbane.”

“What do you need us to do?” Scott asked, though it was Derek who answered.

“We need to check over where I found her, see if we can retrace her steps. She was collapsed near the edge of the preserve.”

“Great.” Stiles glared at Kate's corpse. “Can't we just say luck is on our side, things are going our way for once?”

“With something strong enough to kill Kate, who should have been dead after meeting with Peter's claws?” Scott didn't seem any happier that there was something unknown and stronger than Kate running around the preserve.

“Point,” Stiles said. “I'll drive.”

“I'll take my car.”

“Uh, no you're not.” Derek stopped in the exit and Stiles slammed straight into his back. He laughed, patted his shoulders, and peered around Derek to catch his expression. “What? You know the first rule of horror movie mistakes.” When Derek's expression didn't change, Stiles threw his hands up, almost hitting Scott in the face. “Don't split up!”

“He has a point, and it'll be faster.”

Thank you, Scott, Stiles thought rather pointedly in his best friends direction. Stiles could see the muscle in Derek's jaw twitch.

“Fine,” Derek gritted out and reluctantly hopped into the passenger side seat of the jeep.

“Hey, Scotty, my best bro has dibs on--” at Derek's thunderous expression and Scott's exasperated Stiles, let's just go, Stiles relented. Fine, if Derek wanted to sit next to him and glare through his windshield that was his prerogative.

It was later and darker than Stiles wanted to be out. They'd bypassed the edge of the preserve thirty minutes ago, tromping through the woods as quietly as they could. Or at least in his case, without complaining too much. Or that much. Or only a little bit. Or a lot.

“Hey guys, lovely night. Dark, in the woods, looking for murderous--”

“Stiles.” Derek always made his name sound like a curse. “Shut up.”

“Way to ask nicely, big guy.” Derek's lip curled up in a half-snarl, which Stiles took as his cue to turn down the sarcasm for his health. Even though they'd only been walking for thirty minutes, he could no longer see much in front of him without help from his cell phone. The trees shielded any light from the crescent moon in the sky.

“See anything?” Stiles asked.

“No.”

Derek walked in front of him, moving easily through the underbrush. He didn't seem to be following any path that Stiles could see, but every once in a while Scott would stop beside him and take in a big lungful of air, so they must be scenting something.

“She was staggering,” Derek commented. He was strangely quiet.

“Poison looking more likely?”

“Maybe,” Derek agreed. “There's been hunter activity in Beacon county.”

Scott furrowed his brows. “What kind of activity?”

Stiles frowned. “Let me guess, the not good killing-kind.”

Derek didn't say anything for a minute, continuing his slow sweep of their surroundings as he moved forward. It was oddly graceful. “It's not that straightforward. Yes, some werewolves have been killed, but so have the hunters.”

“Yeah,” Stiles drawled, “the other weres aren't going to roll belly up and present them their throat.”

Shaking his head, Derek took one threatening step toward him, having lost his patience. Scott held out his hand, giving Stiles a look. One he was familiar with. The 'don't push it' look. He held up his hands. “I don't see why we need to be concerned. Beacon Country is big. Like 500,000 people big. People die, it happens.”

“Stiles.” Scott radiated disappointment.

“It's different,” Derek cut in furiously, “because they've started monitoring them.”

“You mean people like Kate? Or people like us? How's that different?” Stiles threw his hands up. “That's what--”

“Stiles!”

“What—okay, okay, fine.” Scott's mouth was pressed together into a thin-lipped frown and his whole face had that sour, pinched look that mean he was done with all of Stiles bullshit. “I'll let the big bad wolf talk.”

Derek's frown immediately deepened and he heaved a deep breath. “Hunters do monitor us. Typically, like the Argents, one hunting family lives in or nearby a pack and keeps watch. We don't kill, they don't interfere. But what's happening up North is different. Werewolves and hunters alike are being monitored by what I suspect is a third-party, one that is only escalating tensions.”

“Do you think that's who killed Kate?” Scott asked, cutting off Stile's next thought.

“Then why kill the hunters, too?” Stiles asked, knowing they were all thinking it.

Derek looked like he had a hard time admitting “I don't know” and instead answered with: “Just pay extra attention to your surroundings, watch for people trailing you, we know whoever it was could take out Kate so keep alert and--”

Whatever else Derek planned to suggest was cut off by a loud roar. It didn't sound like a werewolf, but was as loud as one and Scott and Derek both swiveled toward the sound.

“What--” but Scott was already grabbing him by the elbow, pulling him away from another grating roar. Behind him, he could hear Derek's answering roar, and Scott in his ear shouting—come on!

Scott hauled him along and Stiles tried his best to not trip over any tree roots – he really did – but a whirring sound in front of them had him skidding and veering right to avoid slamming into Scott's back. They'd stopped and there was definitely something deadly up in the trees in front of them. It was moving too fast for Stiles to catch a good look, but it seemed to hop between trees and skitter along the ground. Whatever it was, it had multiple legs. Scott's breath rumbled in a low growl as he planted himself firmly in front of him and Stiles dropped a reassuring hand on his shoulder, though he didn't know which way to go now that they'd gotten turned around. Forward was definitely out and so was backwards if the crunch of leaves and cracking of trees was anything to go by.

“Um, Scotty, I think we should take a hard right.”

“No,” Scott lisped as his fangs sprouted and fur grew along his face, “you are going to go right and get back to your jeep.”

“I'm not leaving you here!”

Scott whipped his head to stare at him incredulously. “Now's not the time to fight, Stiles!”

The animal heaving in the branches launched at Scott. Stiles moved to the side just in time to avoid getting crushed and holy god that was a huge fucking spider.

“Good plan!” he shouted, stumbling into a run. He could hear Scott behind him and when he glanced back Scott was following. The thing was once again in the trees. He didn't care to keep looking, just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

It was fast, faster than Scott and Stiles slammed into the ground hard with pincers at his neck and a sharp, mechanical leg narrowly avoiding his face. Twisting, he tried to get up but the thing slammed him back down into the ground, cutting him across the back of his neck. Scott roared and yanked it off. Stiles tried to get up, to run, stumbling to his feet but he just couldn't seem to move right. His skin burned where he'd been cut and Scott yanked his arm over his shoulder, manhandling him through the forest at a speed Stiles struggled to keep up.

The roar in his ear was deafening and time seemed to be passing too quickly, because Derek's hands were on his legs, pressing into his jean pockets.

He smacked at him. “Want to touch the goods, need to get a date first.” Derek's face swam in and out of his vision, which seemed to be bouncing around. His head was throbbing and he felt like he was going to throw up. He snapped his mouth shut, struggling to hold back the sour taste of vomit in his throat.

Derek's palm was warm against his back. It was nice. It was also the last coherent thought he had.

Thomas! Thomas! Someone was shaking him. He squeezed his eyes shut, groaning. Wet with sweat, bile in the back of his throat, he opened his eyes to a dark haired boy leaning above him. He didn't recognize him.

He struggled against his hold, needing to get away. He was shoved onto a table. Another person, chin dark with stubble, was holding his legs down. He thrashed against them while a dark skin manned approached the table.

“No, let me go!”

“Stiles!” The boy he first saw shouted at him. “You need to hold still. It's a sedative. It won't hurt you.”

He didn't believe him. He couldn't. In the corner, an older blonde woman with her hair pulled back stared at him, her red lips pressed in a thin line. She held a gun in her hand.

“Your trails have only just begun, unfortunately.” She raised the gun to her head.

Stiles threw himself forward. Arms held him back. “No, don't!”

She looked at him, finger on the trigger. “Remember, WCKD is good.” She pulled the trigger. He screamed, blood and more splattered against the walls. He threw up, convulsing. Someone else, not him, was screaming. His whole body hurt and a towel was wiping roughly at the vomit on his face.

The boy's face blurred, in it's place Teresa stared down at him, eyes wide in concern. Minho stood in the corner, arms crossed and face smudged with dirt. He needed to tell them, they needed to know what he remembered.

“It's me,” he croaked, throat closing up around the words he didn't want to say, “I know who--”

_It's not who are you, Stiles. It's who are we..._

A needled plunged into his neck before he could finish.

 

 

For the first time since Minho came to Beacon Hills, Stiles didn't show up to school. Neither did Scott, thought he recognized Stiles other good friend, Lydia, in his math class. He frowned down at his phone. There were no new messages. He gripped his pencil tight, Grievers had been prowling the forest, no doubt following him and trying to find the others before he could. The first person he'd needed to find was Thomas, and he found him, in Stiles. Stiles just might not know it yet, but Minho could never leave him. Thomas, who'd saved him, who'd gotten him out, who was the bravest, most curious son-of-a-shuck he'd ever known. And he wouldn't let WCKD have him, not this time.

He sat next to Lydia in lunch. “Hey, have you heard from Stiles?”

She eyed him, openly disdainful before shaking her head. “Haven't heard from him.” Her phone sat beside her lunch tray, untouched but not out of sight. Minho had seen her texting several times throughout the day and he had a feeling her wording was important. He nodded.

“If you hear from him, can you tell him I hope he feels better?”

She looked at him, her green eyes calculating. “Of course, it's probably just a cold.”

“Probably,” he agreed, fingers tightening on his fork. He didn't believe that for a minute, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. He was used to things going wrong.

After school, he watched Lydia leave the parking lot, knowing that she normally turned right when she went home. Being a Runner had taught him to be observant, and he was fast enough to follow her on foot. The roads were residential and she didn't go far. He ended up passing her car again later as he walked down the main road; she was parked outside of the vet clinic which was a weird place to choose to go after school. But then Minho didn't think Deaton, who reminded him too much of Ava Paige, was very normal. He'd gotten that much in his observation of Stiles and his friends before he'd joined Beacon High.

Scott's bike was also parked outside the entrance, slightly lopsided. He turned and jogged back toward the school, passed the lacrosse fields and went toward the treeline. What belongings he had were a little further away, but close enough to the school that he could break in to shower and wash his clothes in the sink. Inside a rucksack he kept buried beneath a pile of leaves and hidden underneath a bush was a small black vial. He held it in a tight fist and hoped this would be all that was needed.

Later, under the cover of darkness, Minho made his way back to the clinic. Scott's bike was gone and so was Lydia's car. Only a Toyota was parked in the lot, so probably someone stealing a spot in order to avoid a ticket. The sign on the door declared closed, but Minho had learned from Thomas that sometimes following the rules was klunk.

He went around the back anyway, just in case the place had cameras. He didn't see any cameras at the entrance, or at the back exit. Pressing an ear to the door, he listened for any noise but couldn't hear anything. He picked a few wires from his pocket and slipped them into the key-slot. Fiddling, he heard a quiet click and opened the door slowly. It was dark inside, but in the glow of a dim, overhanging light he could see Stiles, bare chested on an operating table. No one else seemed to be inside, but he remembered the car out front and stayed cautious. There was a good chance he wasn't alone. He couldn't imagine any of Stiles friends abandoning him in Deaton's clinic or leaving him alone.

It looked like they were at least in another room for the moment and he still couldn't hear anything. He waited, door cracked, before easing it open more and making his way into the room. A quick glance around revealed no one, so he made his way over to table.

Stiles was dirty and sweat-soaked, his hair matted down on his head and his veins puke green. Minho touched his arm and could feel him shake beneath his hand. It was obvious, from his fevered, hoarse murmurs that the Greivers had gotten to him. 

Pulling the vial from his pocket, he slipped it into the syringe he carried with a click.

“What are you doing?”

Minho plunged the needle into Stiles' forearm as Deaton rushed him. He yanked it out, harsh enough that blood pulled up in the needle's wake, and ducked under Deaton's grab, sprinting for the door. “Hey!” He didn't look back, shielding his face from view with his elbow and ran until Deaton's footsteps faded, until the sound of cars faded and he was out of breath and nearing the edge of the forest. He'd done it. Laughing, Minho crouched down in shelter of a tree. He wasn't going to have to be alone much longer. WCKD had made their move; he had made his.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the three of you went underwater, you essentially opened a door into your minds...The nogitsune wasn't the only thing in Stiles' mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a bit longer to get out than I anticipated, especially since I had a third of the chapter done by the time I posted chapter 1. I guess that's life :) FYI, does anyone want little stars or something to make the pov switch easier or is it obvious enough?

Not bothering to knock, Derek wrenched open the back door to the clinic. Deaton stood frowning over Stiles. “What happened?”

“He was injected.”

Deaton's answer was as frustratingly elusive as it usually was and only brought more questions to the forefront. He clenched his jaw. “I understood that part over the phone. What I'm more concerned about is the intruder and what he was injected with.”

He moved closer to Stiles, whose veins had faded from sickly green into a bruised blue. He was still pale, but no longer shifting restlessly in his sleep or screaming. God, the screaming had forced him to wolf-out, as Scott liked to call it, briefly before he'd gotten it under control. He rested his fingers against Stiles' wrist, black crawling up arm. The furrow between Stiles' brow evened out.

“I wasn't able to get a sample of the substance as our intruder took it with him when he ran.”

Stiles' pulse was fast but steady. “Do you know who it was?”

“No, I didn't recognize him. Asian, looked to be a little shorter than Stiles and around the same age.”

“That sounds like Minho.” Scott had just come through the door, his mouth tilted in a frown and the skin around his eyes purpled from a lack of sleep. Derek didn't blame him, he hadn't been able to sleep well either. Less, after Deaton had frantically called him to tell him someone had broken in.

“Who's Minho?” Derek asked. Scott looked uncomfortable, pressing his hands against the blanket laid over Stiles' legs.

“Stiles'...boyfriend.”

“Is that a question or an answer?” Scott glared at him, annoyed.

“An answer. He's new. They've been dating, unofficially, for almost three weeks.”

Derek couldn't help the rumble in his throat. If this kid hurt Stiles, after everything the pesky, annoying teenager had been through Derek might need to do a little throat ripping. “What do you know about him?”

Scott touched Stiles other arm, black winding up his veins. “Not much. I'm not dating him man, I only know what Stiles has told me, which isn't really useful.”

“Start there,” Deaton encouraged. “There is no saying if it was the same person, but it can't hurt.”

Scott shrugged. “They both like Star Wars, black coffee and they've been running together in the mornings through the park. They play video games and marathon tv shows. I told you, it's nothing useful.”

“When did he move here?”

“Not too long into the new school year, I think he's been here about three weeks. They started hanging out immediately, from the first day.”

“So he could have had his eye on Stiles right away,” Derek concluded.

“Yeah, or he could genuinely like him.” Scott glared down at Stiles closed eyes and blew out a deep breath. “I hope it isn't the same guy.”

“Can you catch any scents you don't recognize?”

“No,” Scott answered. “I tried as soon as I entered, the medicine overpowers a lot.”

Derek nodded, pulling his hand away from Stiles forearm. He'd tried the same thing, too.

“Well,” Deaton sighed, “he doesn't seem worse. In fact, his vitals are doing better now than they were earlier. I almost feel like we should be thanking this person.”

“So you're saying he's getting better?” Scott asked.

“It appears that way,” Deaton said as he removed his gloves. “His heart rate has steadied and he is no longer vomiting.”

“Do you think his symptoms matched what killed Kate?”

“I'm not exactly an expert in biopsies, Derek, but I would say there were similarities.”

“When do you think he'll wake up?” He could see Stiles' eyes moving behind his closed lids. His skin still had a sheen of sweat near his temples, but he wasn't shaking as he had been the last time Derek had seen him.

“It's hard to say, he isn't unconscious, only sleeping but it wouldn't be wise to wake him as he probably wouldn't be coherent if we pushed his limits. The poison seems to be working its way out of his body. When he wakes, we'll need to make sure he drinks a lot of water to flush everything out.”

“I'll stay,” Derek volunteered.

Scott shook his head. “No way man, I should be here when he wakes up.”

“You have school, Scott.”

Grimacing at the reminder, Scott protested once more but quelled under Deaton's hard look and Derek held back a smile of gratitude. “Derek's right. You need to go to school. We'll call you as soon as he wakes up.”

Scott grumbled, but left with a muttered fine and a quick threat that Derek better call him as soon as and not a minute late.

It's still been dark when he'd arrived, but Derek knew the sun would come up soon. With the new threat, Scott would need what sleep he could get between school and his job. He had neither, and it wouldn't be hard to take a nap later, once he was reassured that Stiles was okay. They weren't friends, not really, but Stiles had saved his life before and you couldn't go back to being strangers after that. He took the seat Deaton offered him, leaning his weight onto the surgical table. Stiles lay quiet in a way he never did when asleep; Derek had watched him often enough in rest to know the stillness was unnatural.

Deaton left to ready the clinic for morning appointments and Derek took some solitude in the fact that Deaton felt Stiles was recovering enough to leave his side. His own reservations of Deaton aside, the man hadn't left Stiles alone during the night, keeping up the vigil while Scott and him ran perimeter around the preserve looking for the beast responsible.

Hours later, a little before lunch, Derek stirred from his lull as Stiles' heartbeat slowly gained traction. He pulled back a bit, so he wouldn't be pressed so closely to Stiles' side. Instead of waking slowly, as Derek suspected, Stiles' grunted and jerked upright.

“Hey,” he said. Stiles' whirled around at his voice, throwing himself backward and almost off the table. Derek grabbed his forearm, pulling him forward to keep him from falling. “Easy.”

Stiles' mouth turned down even more, though he didn't pull away or speak as his eyes slowly took in the room, took him in and finally settled on him. “Stiles?”

“What happened?” A grimace twisted Stiles' frown further down and he rubbed a hand over his throat.

“We think you were poisoned.”

“You think?” Stiles managed to make the simple question sound simultaneously incredulous and annoyed.

“We're not sure. Deaton is looking into it.”

Scoffing, Stiles looked down at his hands. Derek could read his lips easily as he counted soundlessly to ten.

“Is there anything we need to know?” When Stiles looked at him, question easily read in his raised eyebrows, Derek expanded. “Any side-effects? How do you feel?”

“Right as rain, obviously.” Lie—obviously. But then, the question was a bit overhanded even if Derek needed to know if only to reassure himself that he wasn't leaving Stiles prematurely.

“Look, I feel like shit, but I'm going to feel even more like shit if I don't get home to my dad. How long have I been out?”

“Over 48 hours. It's Tuesday, almost lunch time. It was Saturday when we were attacked.”

“Awesome. So on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being I'm grounded for all eternity, how much do you think my dad is going to freak?”

“I thought your dad knew about the supernatural now?”

“And who happened to inform him that I was passed out in Deaton's clinic?”

Point, Derek thought. He hadn't and he wondered if Scott had.

“Scott?”

“Yeah, right. Scott wouldn't rat me out to my dad if he could help it, even if my dad knows about things going bump in the night.”

“That doesn't seem...” Derek tried to think of a diplomatic way to say responsible, but was coming up blank. Scott was the alpha now, if there was one thing Derek didn't mind handing over, it was the responsibility that came with it.

“Scott's a good guy, the best really, but he's still Scott even if he is an Alpha. And look,” Stiles said, spreading out his arms, “no harm no foul.”

“Right,” Derek said, though he wasn't sure if he agreed with that logic. Stiles outwardly looked fine, too pale and clearly exhausted, but only as if he'd had the flu. His heartbeat was steady, but something seemed off though he couldn't pinpoint what. Maybe it was the way Stiles kept looking at everything, eyes darting from one object to the next though never staying steady. Or the way his hands trembled minutely and his jaw clenched when he wasn't talking. Either way, Derek wanted to ask if he was really as fine as he said, though he didn't know how and didn't think Stiles would tell him the truth, even if they both would know he was lying through the thump of his heart.

“You look okay,” he settled on, “but Deaton should check you before you leave.”

Stiles nodded and bit his lip. Derek's eyes were drawn to the uncertain motion of his mouth and he held his breath a little as he waited for Stiles to say something else.

“I feel fine, just...I don't know how to describe it. I think I was delirious when that stuff kicked in, right?”

“You were.”

“Yeah, I still have a headache from it, but that's it.”

Derek touched the top of his hand, drawing Stiles' pain and Stiles took a stilted breath in response.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.” And he meant it. Stiles and him weren't friends, not really, but they were pack.

Later, after Deaton had given Stiles a clean bill of health, and Derek watched the door shut after Stiles' retreating back, he wondered if he should have told him what they suspected of his boyfriend. The word boyfriend sat uneasy with Derek, the very thought making his hands clench. He was intimate with that type of betrayal, and didn't want Stiles to go through the same thing. Hopefully, Scott would take care of it. Derek didn't have much optimism to think that anything that happened was just a coincidence. He slammed the door to Deaton's clinic, following Stiles out.

When Stiles turned to look back at him, eyebrows raised, Derek nodded toward his car. “Need a ride?”

Grinning, Stiles replied in the affirmative.

Derek found the rhythmic tapping of Stiles' fingers against his car's window soothing as they drove through the residential streets of Beacon Hills. They bypassed a few fast food restaurants before he pulled into the parking lot of Beacon Hills High.

“I don't know if you noticed, big guy, but this isn't my home.”

He smirked. “I'm aware, but I didn't call Scott so I figure this will be an appropriate apology.”

“You saying sorry? I can't believe it.” He let Stiles nudge him in the shoulder without comment. No doubt Scott had heard their approach and the distinct hummingbird heartbeat under Stiles' ribs.

Scott came out a few moments later, sans food, and greeted Stiles with hug.

“You look so much better,” Scott commented.

“I feel so much better,” Stiles replied.

Derek gripped his the steering wheel tight, unsure if he should join the conversation. There was a lot he was unsure about recently, especially when it came to Scott.

“I didn't call,” Derek added into the lull of conversation, “but I thought it better you see him in person.” He nodded at Scott. “Deaton cleared him to go home and said he should stay home sick tomorrow to fully recover from the poison.”

“He determined it was poison?”

“Not what it was,” Derek said, and Scott nodded.

“Well.” Stiles clapped to get both of their attention. “I'm still feeling half-corpse, so how about you take me home? Get my homework for me, Scotty.”

“No problem, I'll bring it over after lacrosse is finished.”

They shifted back toward the car and it was quiet again as Derek drove out of the parking lot, Stiles waving at Scott and looking paler than normal. He did look half-dead, though not nearly as bad as when he'd been possessed by the nogitsune. When Derek glanced over again, Stiles was busy texting. Catching Derek's look, Stiles turned in his seat toward him with a wane grin. “Scott told my dad I'd stayed at his place and then got sick. Cause he was working a double, he was letting Melissa handle it.”

Derek rolled his shoulder, uncomfortable. “Melissa didn't tell him the truth?”

Stiles waved away his concern. “Nah, she's good like that. With the caveat that I tell him when I get home.”

“Do you want me there for that conversation?”

The lack of response was noticeable. “What?” The question sounded more defensive than Derek meant it to.

“I...I uh, appreciate it, but I'm good.” Stiles heart started beating faster, nothing alarming but Derek wondered if the upcoming conversation with his dad was stressing him out now that Derek had stuck his paw in it and reminded him. Stiles clapped him on the shoulder as he got out. “Thanks.”

Derek nodded and then left. There wasn't any more he could say or do without more information.

 

Telling his dad the truth went about as horrible as Stiles had imagined it would over an awkward, stilted dinner, his dad frowning both at him and the salad before shaking his head in disappointment.

“Your grounded.”

He nodded and squeezed his fork harder.

“Until I decide you might, just might kid, keep your word. We talked about this! At the rate your going, you might just be grounded until college.”

Staring at his salad, the spinach gone soggy, Stiles nodded again and swallowed.

“You can't keep these things from me and you can't let Scott, either.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“Right.” His dad ate the rest of his dinner in silence, getting up only to pour a finger of whiskey into a glass. He took that as his cue to leave, rinsing his dishes with short, angry strokes before setting them in the dishwasher.

When he went upstairs, his notes were piled on his bed. No doubt Scott had came and went, the window ajar. Derek normally shut it and Scott always seemed to forget, probably because Scott preferred using the front door like a normal person. Stiles sighed, flopping down on his bed and staring at his ceiling. His phone was on his dresser and his clothes from Saturday night were folded on his chair, clearly washed. He probably had Scott to thank for that too.

He held his hands above him, silently counting out to ten again. He was good at ignoring problems, or he'd been good at it, before the nogitsune had taken over. Now, he knew better but he just wasn't sure how to address this one. He rolled over with a groan, typing in his password and sliding past his start screen and straight into his texts. Minho's was at the top, highlighted with five new texts, each one asking how he was.

He skipped over Minho and replied to Lydia and Scott instead.

The next day, he stewed at home and finished up the homework Scott had brought over the night before. He'd finally texted Minho back, asking if he could pick up his homework for him and sending off a quick text to let Scott know it was covered. He stared down at his cellphone blankly, unsure what he would do when Minho came.

Deaton told him he'd hallucinated and he believed him but it'd felt so real. He could still see it easily: the long, green expanse of the glade, the jutting walls of the maze, Teresa, Minho, Newt, and all the other gladers who'd been both friend and enemy and trapped just like him. It didn't feel like a hallucination, it felt like a memory.

It'd been easy to make the connection to Minho, but Teresa and the others he'd never seen before, not even a glimpse of their features in his fellow classmates. He didn't know how his mind had conjured up faces of people he didn't know, but he also knew from experience the mind could be a formidable enemy; one that couldn't always be beaten.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Side-effects, Derek had asked. But he didn't think what he'd believed during the hallucination counted as a side-effect, he only remembered them vividly. It wasn't something that was affecting him now, if he didn't count the shortness of breath that preceded a panic attack. But he was able to stave it off long enough that the tightness in his chest eased and his fingers were no longer curled around his knees in a death-grip.

Stiles glanced at the walls in his room, they'd never been bare but more than ever they were plastered with photos and internet clippings and not just the posters of bands he favored. He wanted to take the photos down, tear them off and shove them in a box beneath his bed, but he knew better. No doubt, they'd be needed for another day and another connection. Whatever he'd been poisoned with and whatever had killed Kate for the second time was still out there. He rolled over and off with a huff, wanting to just relax beneath his covers and jerk off but knowing better. He stood and stared at his wall, trying to see if anything could spark his memory.

The thing, Griever, had been large but bulbous and with thin, arachnid legs. The legs had been shiny and pointed, and the end that had swiped him had been sharp like a knife – like metal. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. “Okay, Stiles, you can do this.”

The poison, he remembered, had spread quickly. He couldn't even remember arriving at Deaton's clinic and barely remembered the trip in the car. The thing had moved fast, faster than Scott could track and it swung through the tree branches and bounded on the ground, clearly able to climb even if not successfully. The roar it'd made sounded different than Derek's; a low, grinding sound like it had gears accompanying it. It would make sense, Stiles mused as he stared blankly at his wall, if it had been made from metal and organic materials. Scott's claws had punctured it and drew a black blood, slick like oil that had slimed over his clothes when he'd scrambled away.

He strode over to his desk, turning on his laptop and impatiently waiting for it to load. He knew what he needed to look for now.

Lost in google, he barely heard his dad's shout and yelled back without thinking much about what he said or answered. A knock at his door had him hanging backwards over his seat to see what his dad wanted. But it wasn't his dad at the door, it was Minho with a bookbag slung over one broad shoulder.

“Hey.” Minho shifted on his feet, not quite coming into his room.

Stiles grinned, though he wasn't sure if it looked like a grimace when he considered how he looked: dark eye bags, too pale skin, checked pajama pants and a thin t-shirt that had an orange stain on his stomach from one too many wipes of his Cheetos-covered hands. “Yo. Please don't tell me everything in that bag is for me.” The book bag on Minho's shoulder looked heavy. The thunk it made when Minho swung it to the ground was not encouraging. He shut his laptop before Minho could see what he'd been searching.

“Some of its for me.” Minho sat on his bed and Stiles swung around to see him better.

“Thanks man, I appreciate it.”

Minho grinned. “No problem. I'm just glad you're feeling better. Think you'll be at school tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately. Or fortunately, depending on how you want to look at it. I feel like I got hit by a semi and then trampled by a pack of vindictive deer and eaten by the wolves following them.”

“That was strangely descriptive.”

Stiles moved to the bed and nudged Minho with his shoulder. “I think I should take that as a compliment. You never know what I might imagine next.” He glanced down at Minho's crotch pointedly and laughed when Minho hunched his shoulders and blushed.

“Shut up and do your homework.”

He clapped one hand on Minho's shoulder, took a fortifying breath and leaned in close. “Way to ruin my fun, shank.” Minho tensed beneath his hand and Stiles had his answer to one question, which only brought a hundred more up.

Minho's hands were clenched around the book he'd been holding, knuckles white but Stiles didn't know what to say next. He hadn't planned that far and he was rarely without words but this...he closed his eyes and counted to ten, leaning into Minho's back.

“Was it real?”

“Yes. No. I'm don't really know how to explain it.”

Minho's back was warm and Stiles pressed his forehead against it and breathed deep against the rise and fall of it. “It this another test?”

“Yes.” Minho set the book aside.

“Is this real?”

“Yes.”

Stiles laughed, but nothing was funny. “Are you sure?”

Minho sucked in a harsh breath, his back rising with the motion. “No. Shuck it, I'm just—I had to find you.”

Straightening up, Stiles pressed his thumbs into Minho's back – hard. “You should leave.”

Minho nodded and stood slowly, looking every bit like the calm, collected Runner Stiles remembered. He set his homework and notes on Stiles' bed, zipping up his bag and swinging it onto his back. “We need to talk.”

“We can talk later. Later, as in not now. Want me to say it in Spanish for you?”

“I think I got it.” Minho left without a backwards glance and Stiles fell back onto his bed with a huff. He kicked his legs and sank back onto his pillow. His earlier research hadn't prepared him for this.

It'd been a whim. Just say a word, one word that Minho, if it hadn't been just a hallucination, would recognize and watch carefully for a reaction. He hadn't expected it to elicit a reaction and hadn't wanted it to. Shit.

He pressed his palms into his eyes. He didn't know what to do.

When he arrived at school the next morning, Scott grabbed his books from his hands and they made their way to homeroom together. Minho slid into the seat next to him, but didn't greet him. Stiles glanced over to see Minho staring determinedly at his math book. Scott watched them and nodded toward Minho. Stiles knew the question he was asking, but didn't have an answer. Not one he could confidentially give. He didn't know how to explain it yet and all the research he'd stayed up doing didn't give him any more answers than he'd had yesterday.

He'd spent part of his night fighting off a panic attack and counting his fingers; unable and unsure what to believe and making mental lists of what Deaton had told him versus what Minho confirmed. Rationally, what Minho told him shouldn't be possible, but neither should werewolves.

A crumpled up wad of paper landed on his desk. Stiles pulled in open and spread it out beneath his book. Scott's messy scrawl greeted him: everything okay?

He wrote back fine and lobbed it at Scott's head, thought Scott caught it before it could make contact. Stupid werewolf reflects ruining his fun.

Scott was frowning down at the note and Stiles knew he was irritated. He'd seen that look a lot growing up: the Stiles-is-avoiding-a-confrontation-look.

He took out his phone, typed one word and hit send: later.

Later Stiles found a note on the kitchen table from his dad: body found in the woods. stay out of the preserve!

That last bit was underlined twice and Stiles knew if he disobeyed his terms for grounding would be revised and extended. Possibly permanently. Instead, he texted both Derek and Scott the news, knowing they would want to be updated on the situation. The third text he sent to Minho, asking him to come over.

Minho arrived with a frown and his backpack on one shoulder.

“If you didn't want to be here,” Stiles started, with his hand still on the door.

Minho shouldered past him. “I do. I just didn't think you wanted me here.”

Stiles shut the door, leading him to his bedroom though Minho knew the way easily by now. “I don't know if I do, but I need answers and I'm not going to get them anywhere else.”

He could be an asshole, but at least he was a truthful one.

Laughing quietly, Minho shook his head. “Still a curious greenie.”

Stiles held his breath at the odd wording, even as it sounded natural. He felt conflicted, in the same way he had when he'd been possessed, an odd waring in his thoughts that made reality seem a bit blurry and no-no—it wasn't reality that was blurry but the posters in his room and the black bag on Minho's shoulder.

“Hey, Stiles, hey--”

He couldn't breath.

“Stiles!” Warm fingers squeezed his shoulder and he jerked back, fighting the hands holding him down, grappling to push him into the dirt.

“You need to breath, listen to me. Dammit shank, you need to listen. I'm going to count.”

His hands shook.

“In two, out two, okay?”

The burning in his chest increased.

“In one two, out one two.” Hands pressed down on his shoulders, firm and reassuring.

He blinked, trying to focus.

“In one two, out one two.” Minho's palm spread flat on his chest, a warm pressure-point of focus. He watched Minho's mouth move and copied him, breathing in for two and out for two.

“You got it. Again. In one two, out one two.”

The tightening in his lungs loosened and he took a steady breath. The room came gradually back into focus, Minho knelt down in front of him with one hand on his chest and his other on his shoulder. His dark brown eyes were wide with concern and his mouth was in a thin, flat line which smoothed into a relieved smile as his breathing got deeper and longer.

“Your good.”

Stiles gripped Minho's hand. “I'll be fine.” He watched Minho swallow.

“We'll be fine.” Minho's voice was quiet, softer than Stiles had ever heard it even with all the memories between them now.

Stiles looked at him. Minho was as human as Stiles and hadn't they come out on top before? Werewolves, kanima, hunters, greivers and wicked...he breathed deep and steady, the panic attack now past. “We'll be fine,” he echoed.  More than anything, he wanted to believe that.  But he wasn't Scott; he wasn't naturally hopeful and optimistic and he didn't see the good in people.  He needed a plan.  

"Okay."  Making grabby hands at his laptop, until Minho obliged and handed it over, he opened it to a blank word document.  Minho sat on the bed next to him.  He looked over at him, catching his eyes.  "Tell me everything you remember."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://itskinda.tumblr.com/). Would love to chat fandom sometime. Comments & constructive criticism is always appreciated!


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